


The White Swallow

by shortinsomniacs (Liv_Golightly)



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Family Shenanigans, Fluff, HIV/AIDS, Homophobia, M/M, Marvin is his husband who owns the club, Modern AU, Shenanigans, Strong Language, and Jason is their kid, i say fuck a lot, in which Whizzer is a drag queen, lowkey angst, mostly this is a comedy, they're still HIV positive, this is a parody of the birdcage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 22:17:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liv_Golightly/pseuds/shortinsomniacs
Summary: Marvin owns a West Village drag club, The White Swallow. Whizzer, his husband, is the headliner. When their son, Jason, comes home and wants his parents to meet his girlfriend, they're thrilled-- but there's one catch: his girlfriend's father is a conservative Republican senator. Shenanigans ensue.Basically, a Falsettos parody of The Birdcage.





	1. A Little More Mascara

**Author's Note:**

> What up, nerds! This work is a parody of the 1996 film The Birdcage, starring Robin Williams and Nathan Lane. Which, basically, is a parody of La Cage aux Folles. If you haven't watched it, please, God, watch it!
> 
> In which Marvin plays Robin Williams' character, Whizzer plays Nathan Lane's character, and Mendel plays Hank Azaria's character. Trina plays Christine Baranski's character. Charlotte and Cordelia are the club bartender and cook, respectively. 
> 
> Also, Marvin and Whizzer are both HIV+ in this story. 
> 
> I do not own Falsettos. All rights go to its creators.

* * *

 

Whizzer goes on in ten minutes.

 

Whizzer goes on in ten minutes, the club is _packed_ , and he’s _not fucking here_.

 

You’re fucked. You’re fucked, you’re fucked, you’re _so fucked._ Maybe you could—

 

“Marvin!” Cordelia calls, walking out of the kitchen. “Marvin, the _Will & Grace _ crew is here tonight— should we comp their meal?”

 

You blink. “Uh, yeah, sure, whatever— have you seen Whizzer?”

 

“No, why?”

 

“He’s on in ten fucking minutes— Jesus, fuck, can you get Charlotte to make me a gin and tonic? I’m going to need it so I don’t _throttle my husband_!”

 

“Marvin, relax,” Cordelia soothes, putting a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sure he’s getting ready— you know how picky he is about his false eyelashes! Besides, if he’s not up to it tonight, you know the other queens are amazing! Ooh, you could get Cheyenne Pepper to do one of those Marilyn Monroe numbers; she’s great at ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend!’”

 

“Cordelia, honey, not that Cheyenne isn’t great, but people don’t come to The White Swallow to see Cheyenne Pepper— they come to see Miss Azalea Brown! And I’m going to be royally _fucked_ if she doesn’t show up!”

 

“Marvin, I think you’re— oh! Mendel!”

 

You turn, and there’s your housekeeper/PA/pain-in-the-ass, Mendel, rushing down the stairs that lead from your apartment to the club. It might be the middle of summer, but Christ, you wish he’d put on something that wasn’t booty shorts and a crop top.

 

“Where the _fuck_ is Azalea?” you hiss.

 

Mendel throws his hands up. “She’s not coming.”

 

“ _WHAT_?”

 

Mendel waves a perfectly manicured hand in exasperation. “Marvin, sweetheart, I know you’re old, but are you deaf? She’s not coming.”

 

“Fuck! Okay, you know what? Delia, tell Bill to send Cheyenne on for a Marilyn medley to buy us some time. Mendel, go back upstairs and try to get Azalea to get her ass down here.”

 

Mendel runs a hand through his curls. You might be as Jewish as he is, but thank God you didn’t get the curls. “I don’t think it’s gonna—”

 

“ _Go_. I’ll be right behind you!”

 

“Ugh, _fine_ , you cuck, it’s not like Whizzer’s _your husband_ or anything—”

 

“MENDEL!”

 

He rolls his eyes and stalks back up the stairs like the tiny, well-muscled Jewish pixie that he is. If he didn’t make such great coffee and keep Whizzer sane, you’d have fired him long ago.

 

You find Bill by the bar. Charlotte hands you a tumbler of scotch with a wink. You down it in a single gulp, and then turn to your harried stage manager. “Bill, Delia told you—”

 

“— about the Marilyn Monroe medley?” he replies. “Yeah, that’ll buy you another ten minutes once they finish the Cher set. Where the hell is Azalea?”

 

“I don’t _know_!”

 

“Well, the man is over six feet tall; he’s not hard to miss,” Charlotte quips as she fills a shaker with vodka and cranberry juice. “In heels, he makes even Jason look short, and that boy is a tall drink of water!”

 

“Clearly, he didn’t get the height from me.”

 

“No, definitely not. Did you tell Whizzer—”

 

The door of the loft opens, and you see Mendel standing on the top of the staircase. He throws his hands up in exasperation and signs _GET THE FUCK UP HERE!_

 

“Char, I gotta go,” you cut her off. “I— make your wife a gin and tonic; she’s had to deal with Patti LuPone’s paleo diet requests and I think she might cry.”

 

And with that, you haul ass up to your apartment.

 

You can hear Whizzer shrieking faintly through the door to his “dressing room,” which is really just a closet he converted into a vanity fit for a (drag) queen.

 

“Come on,” you hear Mendel plead. “Whiz, please, Marvin’s going to kill me—”

 

“Damn right I’m going to kill you,” you announce, opening the door. “Whizzer!”

 

“No!” Whizzer shrieks. “No, no, no, get out! _Get out_! I don’t want to see you!”

 

Your husband is wearing a pink silk robe, stockings, one red stiletto, and a wig cap. His handsome face is even more accentuated by the ridiculously sharp contour and his brown eyes are surrounded by false lashes and winged eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man. In fact, with the force of his glare, you’re pretty sure your husband wants to kill you.

 

He may be able to apply makeup like a champion and walk in heels better than most women, but your husband is also a personal trainer and a ridiculously good baseball player. If you had to pick a way to die, getting crushed by Whizzer’s delicious, delicious thighs is how you’d want to go.

 

“You go on in _ten minutes!_ ” you exclaim. “What the _fuck_ , Whizzer? Sean Hayes and Megan Mullally are in the crowd tonight!”

 

“I don’t care,” Whizzer growls. “And you don’t care about me either, you bastard, do you? All you want from me is my ability to make you money— and sex! What do you think I am, a dick-shaped ATM?”

 

“I mean, last time I checked, your dick didn’t give out money; it gave out—”

 

“ _MARVIN_!”

 

You can’t help but chuckle. “Sweetie, please?”

 

Whizzer’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head. “Don’t you ‘sweetie’ me, Marvin! God, I hate that tone!”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

 

“You act like you know more than I do because you’re a man and I’m just a woman!”

 

“If you’re a woman, then whose dick did I have in my ass last night?”

 

Mendel starts to cackle, and Whizzer silences him with a glare. “Shut up!” He turns to you. “And _you_ ! You, Mr. Bossy No-Good Cheating Bastard, oh, I have a _lot_ to say to you!”

 

“First of all, maybe we should lay off on the wine, sweetheart, because if you’re forgetting my name, I think we have a problem.”

 

“Oh, fuck you!”

 

“I’ll let you, with pleasure, once you get off stage for the night—”

 

“No, no, no, I’m not going on! Mendel! Mendel, get him the fuck out of here, and get me a Pirin tablet, won’t you?”

 

Mendel hops off from his perch on the windowsill and grabs a bottle out of his pocket. He unscrews the lid, shakes out two red pills, and hands one to Whizzer. “Here you go, darling. But only take one now, yeah? You can take the other one after the show.”

 

Whizzer kisses his cheek. “Mendel, what would I do without you?”

 

“You’d have to learn how to make your own coffee, probably.”

 

“Ooh, actually, that’d be great, could you go run the Keurig and make me a cup of that French press?”

 

“Whizzer, you don’t have _time_ for coffee,” you groan. “You need to get dressed, baby.”

 

“Oh, you just want me to get dressed so I’ll go on stage and you can fuck whatever young, hung stud you’re seeing, is that right?”

 

“ _WHAT_?”

 

“Don’t play dumb with me, Marvin. I should’ve known I wouldn’t be young enough for you once my eyebags became visible.”

 

“Whizzer, you’re thirty-six. That’s— that isn’t old. Neither of us are. I’m forty-one!”

 

“It’s not polite to let others know a lady’s age. And besides, you want me to believe you? I saw the white wine in the fridge, Marvin!”

 

“Uh, okay?”

 

“I don’t drink white wine, and you don’t, either.”

 

“Whizzer, you love prosecco.”

 

“ _Marvin_!”

 

You throw up your hands. “What? Your argument wasn’t solid!”

 

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, so you go to Columbia and get a law degree, and suddenly you’re the _expert_ in solid arguments?”

 

“Baby, that’s— that’s literally what I had to do in court.”

 

“Well, you don’t do it any more, do you?”

 

“Prosecuting was exhausting and I felt like my soul was shrinking, Whizzer, you know that. You’re the one who encouraged me to leave!”

 

“See! Your argument is invalid! Invalid, Marvin!”

 

You start bashing your head against the wall. Now, Sean Hayes isn’t going to come back, and you won’t get to meet Debra Messing, and it feels like you’re on a flight with Delta Airlines, clearly, because this a _fucking nightmare_!

 

You’re interrupted by Bill, who crashes through the door with much more energy than a sixty-six -year-old man should possess. “Marvin, we ran the mambo number to buy time, but you have maybe six minutes. Should I tell Gloria to prep for Azalea’s number?”

 

“ _GLORIA_?” Whizzer shrieks. “Fuck me gently with a chainsaw; you’re going to send on _Gloria_?”

 

You throw up your hands. “Just send her on.”

 

“Over my dead body! You’re not sending on that talentless whore! If the people want Azalea, they’re getting Azalea!”

 

_Oh, thank God._

 

You pull him close and kiss his cheek. “Oh, baby, thank Christ—”

 

“Uh-uh, Marv, you’re not off the hook,” he sniffs. “And we’re Jewish. Bill, darling, be a dear and get the staircase ready, will you?”

 

Bill nods. “Yes, Miss Azalea.”

 

“Thank you, lovely. Now everyone get the hell out! Azalea needs time to prepare.”

 

And with that, she shoves all three of you out the door. Bill rushes downstairs, and you pull Mendel aside.

 

“Pirin tablets?” you hiss. “Mendel, what the _fuck_ are you giving him? You can’t drug my husband! This is how you lost your fucking psychiatry license, _Doctor_ Weisenbachfeld!”

 

Mendel rolls his eyes. “Okay, bub, first of all, I’m not drugging your husband. It’s just aspirin with the A and the S rubbed off of the label. Secondly, I didn’t lose my license, it’s been _suspended,_ and it wasn’t because I drugged someone— that’s a psychiatrist’s fucking _job_ , Mr. Ivy League— it’s because I may or may not have fucked a patient. I mean, we’d terminated treatment, so he wasn’t actually my patient at the time, but. Probably shouldn’t have done that. I thought the waiting period was two years; turns out it’s two and a half.”

 

“ _JESUS CHRIST!_ ”

 

“Dude. Jewish. Which you are, too, as you like to remind us whenever I fuck up the prayers during Hanukkah.”

 

You run your hand through your hair. “Menachem Weisenbachfeld, you are the biggest pain in the ass I have ever had the pleasure to know.”

 

He winks and turns to go back up the staircase. “You know it, Marvie. Now get your ass down there so you can announce your beloved’s presence.”

 

You shake your head and go down to grab the announcement mic from Bill.

 

“Are we ready?” you ask.

 

“Yeah, she said she’s all set,” Bill replies. “James? Ready the staircase!”

 

There’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Bill cocks his head, grins, and says, “It’s go time, Marv!”

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” you begin, speaking into the mic. “It is my pleasure to announce the treasure of the West Village: the one and only Miss Azalea Brown!”

 

The crowd goes wild, and the cheering only increases as the spotlight hits and Whizzer— no, _Azalea_ — appears in a sparkling lavender jumpsuit and five-inch heels. She walks gracefully down the staircase, making it look effortless for a now six-foot-seven man.  

 

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” Azalea laughs. “Thank God low lighting makes everyone look so much better!”

 

The crowd laughs.

 

“I’m so sorry that I’m late— I  just got back from my hometown. Omaha, Nebraska, you know. And, you know, when I come back to my childhood home, it makes me think of such wonderful memories.” She giggles. “I’m kidding— it’s boring as fuck there! And it gives me no inspiration for any songs to sing— I mean, what is there in Omaha? Tractors? I could give you a rousing rendition of ‘She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,’ but I’ll spare you the torture. Jamie, baby, hit it!”

 

The opening chords of “Bad Romance” begin, and the crowd goes wild. You can’t help but smile. This makes your husband happy, and God, you’d do anything to see him smile.

 

But you can’t stay to watch, because you’ve got someone to meet.

* * *

 

You slink up the stairs, and enter your apartment. Climbing up to the main floor, you find Mendel, in a blonde wig and a bikini top, dancing with a mop to Janet Jackson.

 

“Call me Mendel,” he croons. “Dr. ‘Bachfeld if ya nasty!”

 

You shut off his speaker. “Dude, what the _fuck_?”

 

“Aw, come on, Marv! I look great as a blonde! I should be your Marilyn. God knows I can sing better than Cheyenne and Valencia combined!”

 

“That’s true, but nice try, kiddo. You might have the best goddamn voice I’ve ever heard— and don’t you dare tell Whizzer that— but based off of your inability to remember the fucking prayers we’ve been fed since birth, how do you expect me to believe you’ll be able to remember lyrics?”

 

“Maaaaarv,” Mendel whines. “Please? Please just let me _try_?”

 

“Not a chance, kiddo. But you can get that white wine out of the fridge for me and take the rest of the night off.”

 

Mendel blinks. “Wait— Whizzer wasn’t being dramatic? Oh my God, Marvin, I’m going to _tear you a new asshole_ —”

 

You put up a hand. “Shut up, get me the wine, and leave.”

 

“No!”

 

“Leave, or I’ll tell Whizzer you’ve been using his wigs and his Fenty Beauty.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Yeah. _Leave_.”

 

Mendel huffs, pulls the wine out of the fridge, sets out two glasses, and flips you off as he walks out.

 

You shake your head, pour some wine, and take a long swig before carrying it upstairs and settling yourself on the rooftop garden-patio.

 

New York hums below you— it’s late, but the city really doesn’t sleep. You can hear shouts of laughter, conversations, drunken singing, and the honking of cabs. It doesn’t phase you, really. Hell, going somewhere quiet is actually unsettling.

 

God, you love New York.  

 

“Hey,” comes a voice from the doorway.

 

You turn. “Oh, there you are!”

 

Tall, sharp-cheekboned, and with a mass of curly hair, he stands against the doorframe, clutching a glass of wine. “Sorry I’m late. The 1 train was delayed.”

 

“It’s fine, sweetheart. I haven’t been here for long; there was a commotion earlier that took a while to fix.”

 

He raises an eyebrow. “Azalea? She’s on stage now, though, right?”

 

“Mmhmm. And we’re alone, like you requested.”

 

The tension in his shoulders drains. “Good.” He lifts his wine glass, takes a sip, and makes a face. “Ugh. Do you have any beer? Like, Blue Moon or something?”

 

You roll your eyes. “We need to work on refining your palate. Riesling isn’t even a bitter wine! And come sit down; I don’t bite.”

 

He chuckles, and then sits next to you. “So, uh….”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Sorry, this is just hard to say. Please don’t get— y’know, how you get.”

 

“I’m not going to bite your head off, sweetheart. Just talk to me, yeah?”

 

He runs a hand through his hair. He’s cut it short on the sides, but the top is a mess of chestnut-colored curls. It’s a good look for him.

 

“I—” He pauses. “I— I have a girlfriend.”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Wait, _what_?”

 

“We’ve, uh, been dating for a year. And, um, I really, really like her.”

 

“A— you’ve been dating for a _year_?”

 

“Like I said, I really, really like her!”

 

“Well, that’s longer than I’ve ever been with a woman.”

 

He snorts. “Oh my God!”

 

You shrug. “It was the worst fifteen minutes of my life, and probably the worst fifteen minutes of hers. I couldn’t find the hole at first.”

 

“ _DAD_!”

 

You burst out laughing. “Sorry, kiddo.”

 

“Oh my God, don’t ever tell me about my conception again.”

 

You chuckle. “I’m your dad; it’s my job to mortify you.”

 

“I mean, I thought it was your job to love me and help me become a functioning human being, but, sure, okay.”

 

“I love you very, very much, Jason. Now— why don’t you tell me about this girl, hm?”

 

Jason blushes. “Her name is Ella. And, uh, her parents— well, they, uh, want to have dinner with us. Like, to meet you guys, since we’ve been dating for a while.”

 

“Sounds good to me. Aba can make his mushroom risotto, and that gives me the excuse to break out the good wine.”

 

“Dad, you and Aba only own good wine. Because you’re complete wine snobs.”

 

“It’s the gay agenda.”

 

Jason laughs. “Somebody call the New Yorker— we’ve finally solved the question of the gay agenda! I just wouldn’t mention that you’ve been giving your twenty-year-old wine.”

 

“You’re not twenty until October, Jason.”

 

“Semantics.”

 

You chuckle. “So, when are we going to meet this girl?”

 

Jason shifts. “Uh— about that— there’s something you should know.”

 

You gesture for him to continue while you take a sip of your wine.

 

“It’s just that— uh, Ella’s dad is a Republican senator from Ohio.”

 

You spit out  your wine.

* * *

 

Later, after Jason has collapsed on his own bed, Whizzer comes up, decked out in a Marilyn Monroe-esque gown, diamonds and all. He gazes at Jason’s barely-touched glass of wine, and his eyes narrow.

 

“Oh, you fucking _bastard_!” he growls. “I can’t _believe_ you!”

 

“Whizzer, it isn’t—”

 

“Where the _fuck_ is he, huh? How long has this been going on?”

 

“Would you let me—”

 

“No, I fucking _WON’T_!” he shrieks. “ _TELL ME THE TRUTH, YOU FUCKING PRICK!_ ”

 

“ _MICAH_! Would you stop screaming and let me explain?” you snap. “It’s Jason!”

 

All of Whizzer’s anger immediately disappears. “I— _Jason_?”

 

“Yeah, asshole, it’s Jason. My _son_. He’s in his room, asleep.”

 

“Our son,” Whizzer corrects. “If I’m not mistaken, I _am_ his Aba.”

 

“Touchè. You— you really thought I was cheating on you?”

 

Whizzer blushes. “Well, what was I _supposed_ to think?”

 

“If you thought about it logically—”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Marvin,” Whizzer groans, rolling his eyes.

 

You chuckle, but sober. “Sweetheart, I love you too damn much. These have been the best fourteen years of my life, and you bet your pretty ass I want another fourteen years with you. Hell, I want another four hundred!”

 

He smiles. “Come here and give me a kiss, you prick.”

 

You stand and stretch up to kiss him. You’re not exactly tall, and Whizzer’s practically a foot taller than you in those heels. “Ah, the sweet taste of Fenty.”

 

“Hush, this lipstick is magic. It’s probably blowjob-proof.”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “You want to test that out?”

 

“Later, honey. I want to see my baby first.”

 

“Micah, he’s nineteen—”

 

“Don’t remind me. I don’t want to think about how old I am!”

 

“You don’t look a day over twenty-seven, babe.”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mister Marvin. I’m not going to blow you on this rooftop, and I need to make sure Jason’s tucked in before I can drag you into our bedroom and thoroughly untuck _you_.”

 

“You’re a mother hen.”

 

“And _you’re_ a mother hen with a hundred times more neuroticism.”

 

“So, a Jewish mother, basically. Oh, Christ— am I turning into my mother?”

 

“Aw, Aviva. Jason got her hair, you know.”

 

“Thank God I didn’t.”

 

“Oh, babe, I know— it was enough of an ordeal to teach you how to dress like a functional human being! You might’ve _exploded_ if I added in a hair care routine.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Not a chance, Marv.”

 

“No, like, we should shut up. We’re gonna wake up Jason.” You push open the door to his bedroom.

 

Whizzer’s expression turns so tender, you almost melt. His love for Jason is amazing, and Jason loves him so fiercely, too. When you’d both been diagnosed with HIV, about a year after the two of you had started dating, little Jason had _demanded_ to see Whizzer in the hospital. You’d only caught it because he caught pneumonia. When they’d done a full blood panel, they’d pulled you aside and asked if you were also HIV-positive. Wordlessly, you’d stuck out your arm and asked for a blood test.

 

Thankfully, the medications now are ridiculously effective, and it’s entirely likely that neither of you will ever develop AIDS. And still, just like he’s been doing since the age of seven, Jason texts you both reminders to take your medications every day. He’s such a sweet boy. God knows he wouldn’t be half as much of an amazing person if he didn’t have Whizzer as his parent.

 

Jason himself is sprawled on his bed, blanket half off of him. His mouth is slack and his curls are rumpled. Whizzer pulls the blanket so that it’s actually covering him. Leaning down, he kisses Jason’s forehead.

 

“Sweet dreams, honey,” he whispers.  And then, he turns to you. “Come on, babe. Let’s go to bed.”

 


	2. We Are What We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whizzer learns about Jason's...news. We also learn how Marvin and Whizzer met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this is a modern AU parody of the 1996 film The Birdcage. I do not own The Birdcage or Falsettos. All rights go to their creators.

* * *

 

In the morning, you rise early with the sun so you can go on your daily run. Hopefully the traffic surrounding the Bowery won’t be horrible— but who are you kidding? Of course it will be. It’s not pouring rain, which is excellent. Now you can actually take your time at the Union Square Greenmarket instead of ducking for cover! 

 

Marvin is sound asleep. His jaw is slack and his red-brown curls are rumpled. He looks relaxed, which he hardly ever is— but you suppose that comes with the territory of being an ex-lawyer, and also as an ex-single parent. You wonder how the hell Marvin got through Jason’s toddler years without all of his hair going grey!

 

Jason. 

 

You first met Jason shortly before he turned four. You were jogging in Central Park, because you  _ had  _ to show off your new Lululemon pants, of course! You were getting so into the Whitney Houston blasting from your headphones, you didn’t notice when you ran into a very, very attractive man who was pushing a curly-haired toddler in a jogging stroller.

 

“Oh, fu— I mean, oh, _fudge_ , I’m so so sorry,” you’d apologized, reminding yourself not to be a _fucking idiot_ and swear in front of this adorable toddler and his equally adorable father.

 

The father in question was  _ gorgeous _ . And, like, maybe gay? His eyebrows were perfect— so, like, probably gay. He was tall and well built, with arms that looked like he could probably carry, like, a suitcase full of toddlers. Except you’re not sure why he’d  _ have _ a suitcase full of toddlers, but  _ damn _ , he had nice arms. Not like Wolverine, but the man worked out, that was for certain. He had big blue eyes, tousled red-brown hair, and sharp cheekbones. 

 

Oh. fuck, you really were praying he wasn’t straight. 

 

“Hey!” said Hot Maybe-Gay Dad in question, leveling you with a glare. “Are you even listening to me? You almost barrelled right into my  _ kid _ , buddy!” 

 

“You’re, like, really hot,” you’d blurted out before your filter could catch up with your mouth. “Please crush my skull with your thighs.”

 

Big blue eyes widened in shock, and then Hot Dad’s eyes crinkled and he burst into laughter. He had a beautiful smile, you thought. And, judging by how tight his running shorts were, a beautiful c— 

 

“—ock,” Hot Dad said, and fuck, you just missed what he said. “Does dinner at eight o’clock work for you?” 

 

“I— oh my God, did you just ask me out?” you’d asked. “I must be having a Big Gay Fever Dream. Except, uh, I’m not sure why there’s a kid in my gay fever dream.” 

 

Hot Dad grinned devilishly. “I can pinch you, if you like.”

 

“Nooo, Daddy, pinching isn’t nice,” the toddler announced. His hair was curlier than his father’s, chestnut-colored, and his eyes were brown, but he and his father had the same eye shape and expressions. 

 

“You’re right, Jason,” Hot Dad replied. “What should I do instead?”

 

“Make spaghetti. I like spaghetti. And it’s nice to make dinner for people.”

 

Hot Dad laughed and looked at you. “Instead of going out, how does coming to my place for dinner work? I make an excellent linguine with goat cheese.” 

 

You’d grinned back. “I would kill a man for goat cheese.”

 

Hot Dad pulled out his cell phone. “Here, put your number in, and I’ll text you my address.”

 

“Thanks, uh—”

 

“— Marvin,” he’d finished. “And you are?”

 

“Whizzer Brown.”

 

“I like your stripey pants, Whizzer,” Jason piped up. “They look like zebras.”

 

You’d chuckled. “Thanks, Jason. I like your dinosaur socks! My favorite is the stegosaurus.”

 

Big brown eyes widened in shock and awe. “Daddy, Daddy, Whizzer likes stegosaurus, too! That’s my favorite!” 

 

Marvin grinned. “I heard, bubba! You’ll have to show him your dinosaurs sometime, won’t you? But for now, I think we both need to finish our runs, hm?” He’d begun to push the jogging stroller back onto the shoulder. “See you tonight, Whizzer Brown.”

 

And Marvin took back off, taking your heart with him. 

 

You didn’t really believe in love at first sight— hell, neither had Marvin, he’d admitted— but there was something about Marvin that made you believe it. 

 

And to think, it’s been nearly sixteen years since that point, and fourteen since you moved in together, fell deeper in love, and bumbled through parenting Jason. You’d gone from Marvin’s boyfriend to Marvin’s husband. You’d gone from Jason’s Whizzer to Jason’s Aba. You’d never thought of yourself as the marrying type, but your two boys made everything worth it. 

 

After lacing up your sneakers, you press a kiss to Marvin’s forehead, lock the front door behind you, and begin your run. The summer sun beats down on you, already hot as hell. The humidity is going to wreck your hair, but you’re going to have to shower later anyway. It won’t take much convincing to get Marvin to join you. And then, you’ll cook breakfast and figure out why Jason’s come home. Not that you don’t like having him home— you love it! But Jason usually at least  _ tells  _ you when he’s coming home. Something’s going on if he acted so secretive about it. Oh, Christ, you hope he doesn’t have syphilis or hepatitis. Or HIV— two HIV-positive family members are quite enough, thanks very much! 

 

Once you’ve finished your run, you stop by the Union Square Greenmarket to pick something up for dinner. That butcher you like will probably have fresh pork, and the bakery stands always have fresh bread. Mr. Herschel always has challah, and if you bribe him, Mendel will make challah French toast. The poor boy can’t cook for shit, but he makes the best French toast you’ve ever had in your life! 

 

“Morning, Whizzer,” short Mr. Herschel greets as you walk up to his booth. “I saved you some challah!” 

 

“Thanks, Mr. Herschel,” you reply. “Jason’s back, and you know how he li— is that schnecken?” 

 

Mr. Herschel chuckles. “I promised my grandchildren the last of my strawberry rugelach, so I made schnecken for today.” 

 

“I should take one for Marvin,” you decide. “And— maybe one for myself. When the schnecken beckons….” 

* * *

When you come home, Mendel is sewing beads back onto a gown while Marvin sits at the island, reading the  _ New Yorker _ . His hair is sleep-rumpled and his big hipster reading glasses are perched on his nose.

 

“Morning, baby,” you grin, setting your bags down. “I got you a schnecken.” 

 

Marvin kisses your cheek. “Morning, sweetheart. Herschel didn’t have rugelach?” 

 

“Nah, but I  _ did  _ get a challah. You know how much Jason _ loves _ Mendel’s French toast.”

 

Mendel rolls his eyes. “I thought you told me I was banned from using the kitchen.”

 

“No, I told you that you were banned from using the oven after you nearly exploded it!” 

 

“I didn’t  _ know _ the glass pan would explode—”

 

“Not all glassware can be used in ovens, Mendel!”

 

“How the  _ hell _ was I supposed to know _ that _ ?” 

 

“I swear to God, it’s like you didn’t even take home ec in high school!”

 

“I didn’t! I took woodshop.”

 

You burst out laughing. “You took  _ woodshop _ ? Christ, some of the saws were probably as tall as you were!” 

 

Mendel flips you off. “Just for that, you don’t get any coffee.” 

 

“Aw, Mendel, sweetie, don’t be like that,” you pout. “I know you’re compensating for something, but—”

 

“WHIZZER!”

 

“Ooh, Marvin, we should do a Hobbit-inspired number! Then Mendel can finally be in the show!”

 

Mendel smacks you with a dishtowel. “I fucking hate you.” 

 

“Aw, really? But I brought you a cinnamon roll!” 

 

“And you put the coffee on top of the goddamn fridge before you left this morning, you fucker!” Mendel protests indignantly. “Although— I did freak Marvin out by sitting on top of the fridge and popping out before he could open it.” 

 

You laugh, and Marvin flips Mendel off.  Then, you notice Marvin’s expression. His bright eyes are abnormally flat, and he has that look where you know he’s internally screaming. 

 

“Marvin?” you ask. “You look awful. What’s wrong?” 

 

Your husband lowers his magazine. “Jason has a girlfriend, and he wants to propose to her.” 

 

You laugh. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure he does! What nineteen-year-old is already thinking about marriage?” 

 

“Jason is. He told me about it last night.” 

 

The usual twinkle in Marvin’s eye isn’t there. He’s not joking. 

 

“You— you’re serious?” you ask. “You’re not just fucking with me?” 

 

“Baby, if I wanted to fuck with you, I’d replace all your Cher CDs with Swedish rap.” 

 

“You wouldn’t dare, Marvin Levin!” you gasp. 

 

He gives you a snarky grin. “You pull what you did last night again, and I just might.”

 

“How was  _ I  _ supposed to know you were meeting Jason?” You pause. “And he— he really wants to propose to this girl?”

 

Marvin nods. “Yeah, he does.”

 

“But— he can’t!” you exclaim. “He just— he’s too young! He’s going to _ruin his life_! And I— oh, God, I can’t believe it!” You put your head in your hands. 

 

You can practically feel Marvin’s eyeroll. “Micah, keep your shit together, you kn—”

 

Jason’s deep voice cuts him off. “So, you told him?” 

 

You lift your head up. And there’s Jason, tall as can be, staring at you apprehensively. He’s biting his lip, just like Marvin does when he gets nervous. 

 

“Jason, sweetheart, are you— are you  _ sure _ about this?” you ask. “Because it’s— you don’t want to chain yourself to some whore, you know! Even if you got her pregnant, you don’t  _ have _ to marry her! Look at your father— he didn’t!”

 

“MICAH!” Marvin exclaims. “ _ Seriously _ ?”

 

You shrug. “It’s true. But— Jason. This is really something you want to do?”

 

“Yeah,” Jason says, with quiet determination. “I just— I love her a lot.”

 

“All right, honey,” you sigh. “Oh, Marv— our baby is going to get married! And then he’s going to have babies and I’m going to be a grandfather— and I’m too young for that, they’d better not call me _Grandpa_ — and I—” You see Jason drinking out of the orange juice carton. “Hey, J, uh-uh! Did we raise you in a barn? Get a glass!” 

 

Jason rolls his eyes. He pulls a glass out of the cupboard, pours his juice, and downs it in a single gulp. “Happy?”

 

“Yeah, you heathen! We might be a house full of men, but we’re classy bitches.”

 

Jason snorts. “We do bitch a lot.”

 

“It’s the Jewish tradition. And I’m about to start bitching if you don’t come here and at least give me a hug! Or are you too grown-up for that?”

 

Jason can stand nearly eye-to-eye with you now. He pulls you into a hug, and to your surprise, kisses your cheek. “Hi, Aba.” 

  
  



	3. With Ella on my Arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marvin finds out some fun information about Jason's girlfriend's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this is a modern AU parody of the 1996 film The Birdcage. I do not own The Birdcage or Falsettos. All rights go to their creators.

* * *

 

“Yeah, no, it’ll be fine,” you can hear Jason saying on the other side of his door. “I promise, Ella, it’ll be fine. No— I haven’t told them yet. It’s fine, It’s fine— they’ll be excited! Yeah, they really will! What? No. Oh— uh. Right. That. We’ll— no, no, it’s not that I don’t— yeah. We’ll figure it out. Everything will be all right. Love you, too. Bye. babe.”

 

Oh, God, he’s calling her ‘babe.’ He really _is_ in love.

 

Fuck.

 

You hear the door turning open.

 

“So, what haven’t you told me yet?” you ask, basket of laundry settled against your hip.

 

Jason jumps three feet in the air. “JESUS _CHRIST_ , DAD!”

 

“Jason, sweetie, we’re Jewish.”

 

He rolls his eyes. “That joke stopped being funny a long time ago.”

 

You chuckle. “No, it hasn’t. Now, _what haven’t you told me yet?”_

 

“Can you give me, like, five seconds to stop having a heart attack after you scared me like that?”

 

“No, but I _can_ give you all your dirty laundry that I so lovingly cleaned and folded for you.”

 

“You mean that _Mendel_ cleaned and folded for me.”

 

“Same difference. We’re both fucking hopeless at doing laundry.”

 

Jason laughs. “I thought Aba was going to murder you when you turned that green silk shirt pink. Or put it in the wash to begin with!”

 

“How was I supposed to know it couldn’t go in the wash?”

 

“Dad, you used to be a lawyer. Did you not figure out basic literacy to read washing instructions on a tag?”

 

“Hush, you! They were all these weird symbols, anyway. Like, triangles.”

 

“Yeah. The simple triangle means any bleach can be used. The black one means no bleach. God, Dad, how did you function before you met Aba?”

 

“How the hell does my baseball-playing, arrow-straight son know what _washing machine symbols mean_?”

 

“I took home ec for a year and then three years of cooking in high school?” Jason shrugs. “Besides, Dad, haven’t you seen _Glee_? Jocks can sing and shit, now. Your asshole jock son can make pain au chocolat from scratch.”

 

“I thought that was the entire plot of _High School Musical_.”

 

“I mean, yeah, basically.”

 

“Also, two things: one, you’re not an asshole, and two, stop trying to distract me. _What haven’t you told me yet_?”

 

Jason fidgets. “Oh, so now you’re pulling out the former lawyer schtick?”

 

“Jason.”

 

“Come on, Dad, that’s not even fair, you—”

 

“ _Jason_.”

 

“Fiiiine. I, uh, proposed to Ella. And she said yes.”

 

“YOU FUCKING _WHAT_?” you shriek, so loudly that Mendel comes running in, clad only in a purple thong.

 

“IS SOMEONE DEAD?” Mendel shouts. “DO I NEED TO DO CPR? I’M A DOCTOR, YOU’RE ALL SAFE!”

 

“Mendel, _put some fucking clothes on_!” you snap. “And you’re a _psychiatrist_! Barely!”

 

Mendel puts his hands on his hips. “Listen, bub, I had to go to _med school_ for that shit. I wore _scrubs_. Which are so not even my style!”

 

“Oh my God, you’re a fucking nightmare, Weisenbachfeld. Why do I put up with you?”

 

“Because I’m adorable?”

 

You snort. “Yeah, you’re as adorable as an annoying Jewish hobbit. Oh, wait, you _are_ an annoying Jewish hobbit.”

 

“Fuck you, Marvin, it’s not like you’re even tall—”

 

“I’m sorry, how tall are you? Five-foot-two?”

 

“I’m five-foot-four, you fucking cocksucker!”

 

“Not an insult, honey.”

 

“You fucking _dick_!”

 

“Still not an insult. I love dicks.”

 

“You— you— _vagina-lover_!”

 

You gasp in faux-shock. “How dare you! I need to get Whizzer in here to defend my honor!”

 

“Yeah, you pansy-ass bitch, you really—”

 

Jason rolls his eyes. “Since you two are doing your we’re-best-friends-but-we-hate-each-other bullshit, I’m gonna go get breakfast—”

 

You grab the back of his shirt. “Uh-uh, buddy, you’re not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on! I want an explanation, young man!”

 

Jason makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. “Oh my God, this is really simple! I proposed to Ella! We’re gonna get fucking married!”

 

“Yeah, you’re explaining that, Jason Zachary!”

 

“Did you get her pregnant?” Mendel blurts out.

 

Jason glares. “Mendel, dude, come on!”

 

“Oh my sweet gay God, you _did_ —”

 

“ _I didn’t get her pregnant_ , Mendel!”

 

“So why the hell are you getting married?”

 

“Because my girlfriend is amazing and awesome and _I love her_?” Jason quips. “Why the fuck else do you think?”

 

“Wait, wait, _WAIT_!” you shout. “Jason, I thought you said you were _going to_ propose, not that you _proposed_!”

 

Jason blushes. “Well— I, uh, couldn’t really wait any longer. I just— I wanted her to _know_ , Dad.”

 

“You’ve been home here the whole time! What did you do, sneak her in your back window? Is she sleeping in your room right now and you faked that entire phone conversation to throw me off?”

 

“No, no, I, uh— I proposed over FaceTime.”

 

Mendel lets out a cackle. “Oh my fucking God. Jason, we gotta work on your romantic tactics, buddy.” He rolls his eyes. “Fucking Millennials!”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Mendel, sweetie, you’re a Millennial.”

 

“What? No, I’m not!”

 

“Yes, you are. You were born in 1989. You’re a Millennial.”

 

“Do you see me going around eating Tide Pods? I am not!”

 

You roll your eyes and pull out your phone. “Siri, what years encompass the Millennial generation?”

 

“The Millennial Generation begins in 1982, Marvin,” Siri responds in his robotic British accent.

 

You grin. “See? Millennials.”

 

Mendel throws up his hands. “Everything I know is a lie!”

 

“Yeah, bubba, it is. Now go put some fucking clothes on and make French toast? Pretty please?”

 

Mendel rolls his eyes. “Since you asked _so_ nicely.”

 

He stalks out of the room, and you’re left with Jason, who won’t look at you. He’s staring at his feet. Oh, poor thing, he’s nervous.

 

“Jason?” you ask gently. “Jason, look at me, please.”

 

Worried brown eyes meet your blue ones. “Please don’t yell and tell me about how I’m going to ruin my life.”

 

“What? No, sweetheart, I’d never say that.” You run a hand through your hair. “You really, really love her?”

 

Jason nods. “I really, really do, Dad. She’s— she’s just different than Katie or Julia or Grace. And— I love her. Like how you love Aba.”

 

“Then that’s all I can ask for. I just want you to be happy. When do we get to meet her?”

 

“Uh, soon? Like, maybe this weekend? She’s from, uh, Maine, so it’s not that bad of a drive.”

 

“Okay. You and Aba can make the short rib risotto and I’ll get the good wine. Speaking of cooking, let’s at least attempt to help Mendel by setting the table.”

 

You pad over to the kitchen, where Mendel has the morning news playing as he slathers challah slices in egg and cinnamon and vanilla.

 

“And, breaking news,” the newscaster announces. “Maine senator Carl Newhope was found dead this morning in the bedroom of an underage prostitute. Senator Newhope, a Republican founder of the Coalition for Moral Order—”

 

“Ugh, Republicans,” Mendel says disdainfully. “For once, I’d love to bed a Republican. Just so I could screw him for once.”

 

Jason cackles as he gets down plates. “Yeah, okay, in what world are you a top?”

 

“In what world are you versed in gay culture, Jay-Z?”

 

“I have two gay dads!”

 

“—Senator Newhope’s running mate is Senator Kevin McKinley. Reporters have attempted to reach out to Senator McKinley, but so far have received no comment. In other news, New York City Mayor Bill deBlasio—”

 

“I wouldn’t want to be that guy,” you say, setting out cups and silverware. “Coalition for Moral Order? Jesus, it sounds like those assholes who didn’t want Aba and I coming to help out in your classroom in elementary school. Right, Jason?”

 

“Heh. Yeah,” Jason says absentmindedly, biting his lip.

 

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Dad? You know how I mentioned Ella’s dad was a Republican senator?”

 

“Yeah— but we’ll get it handled. I’m sure it’ll be fine, Jason, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

“No, Dad, you don’t understand— Ella’s— Ella’s dad is Senator Kevin McKinley.”

 

You spit out your coffee.

 

“And— this is the man who’s coming to dinner? This is the man _whose daughter you’re marrying_?” you practically shriek.

 

“I— Dad, Ella’s not like that at all!” Jason exclaims. “I told her about you guys from the get-go, and she said she was the beard for her gay best friend for a while, and she doesn’t agree with her parents’ politics at all, so she quietly rebels. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t ever date someone who hated my family, Dad.”

 

You sigh. “No, no, I know. But— Jason, how the _hell_ are they going to sit through dinner with you, the son of gay couple, and that couple in question, and you think they’re going to be at all okay with you _marrying their daughter_?”

 

“Oh, God, no!”

 

“Then how do you expect this to work? I’m sure Ella is lovely, but how are we even going to get her parents behind this?”

 

“Well, uh, they actually think it’s a great idea to meet you guys.”

 

“Wait, what? Is the Coalition for Moral Order some sort of appeasement to his constituents?”

 

“No, no, they’re still super conservative.”

 

“So— I don’t get it. You told this girl’s parents that her boyfriend has gay parents, and they were _okay_ with it?”

 

Jason shifts and wrings his hands. “Well— we, uh— we, sorta, maybe, uh, told them that you were— we told them you were a French cultural attache. And that you were, uh, not gay.”

 

“YOU FUCKING _WHAT_?”

 

“And that we’re Catholic.”

 

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “ _Jason Zachary Levin_ , what fresh, fresh hell have you gotten us _into_?”

 


	4. With You On My Arm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whizzer gets Marvin to spill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this is a modern AU parody of the 1996 film The Birdcage. I do not own The Birdcage or Falsettos. All rights go to their creators.

Something’s up with Marvin. 

 

He’s twitchy and neurotic— okay, he’s always neurotic— and he’s definitely hiding something. 

 

But if he’s not cheating— which, let’s face it, you’re hot as hell and he’s not likely to cheat at all— then what the  _ fuck _ is he hiding? Your birthday’s coming up, but it’s too early for him to, like, surprise you with a cruise or something. Not that you’d be complaining if he did. 

 

The two of you had luxurious morning sex before heading out for shopping and a Central Park picnic. It’s always nice to get new clothes, and God knows Marvin has more money than he knows what to do with.  Plus, Tom Ford has a new collection in which almost everything is turquoise, and you need some new silk shirts. And maybe some new Italian leather oxfords. You stopped at the farmer’s market and got fresh bread and cheese and berries, and set out for the park. 

 

But when you’re ready to leave, Marvin goes into overdrive. 

 

So, yeah, he’s hiding something. 

 

“Baby, come on, I want to go home and take a bath and try out my new hair mask from Lush,” you tell Marvin. “Self-care is important, you know!”

 

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I  _ know _ , Whiz. But— but it’s so nice out!”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “Marvin, it’s going to rain in the next hour.”

 

“So— so, uh, we can re-enact  _ Singin’ in the Rain!  _ You love that movie!” 

 

“And you hate rain. Besides, that’s not the type of hot and bothered I like on you.”

 

“Aw, come  _ on _ , Whizzer!”

 

“What the hell has gotten into you?” You put your hands on your hips. “If there’s something you’re not telling me, babe, you need to spill.”

 

“Whizzer, it’s not that, I—”

 

“—because if you are, I’m withholding sex.”

 

“Okay? I’d survive.”

 

You wiggle your eyebrows. “Come on, Marvie, I know how much you like my co—”

 

“ _ MICAH _ . Just— please, let’s not go home yet!”

 

You frown. “What’s wrong, Marvin? Seriously, talk to me. We’re a team, baby. I’m here to help you if something’s gone wrong.”

 

He bites his lip. “Uh, I— Whizzer, you love me, right?”

 

“Well, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have this ring on my finger and my cock up your ass almost every night, would I? Might be better if it were an engagement ring, but hey, it’s still pretty. And so’s your perfect ass.” 

 

“ _ WHIZZER! _ There are  _ kids _ around,  _ Jesus _ !”

 

“So? This is teaching them about the gay agenda early. Also, sweetie, we’re Jewish.”   
  


“Oh my God.”

 

“Okay, maybe not the gay agenda, but, like, different kinds of families? Remember when we went into Jason’s class and read that book and talked about different types of families?”

 

“Yes, because talking about our sex lives is definitely teaching children tolerance.”

 

“Hush, you, I know you love my mouth. Especially when it’s—”

 

“Nope, nope, nope, no corrupting children!” he says, but he’s grinning. “Love you, baby.”

 

“I love you, too, sweetheart. Even if you’re a completely neurotic mess right now.”

 

Marvin shrugs. “It’s the Jewish curse. Now give me a kiss!”

 

You grin, lean down, and capture his lips tenderly. When you break apart, he reaches for your hand. 

 

“Now can we go home?” you ask.

 

Marvin’s eyes widen. “No!”

 

You throw your hands up. “Marvin Jonah Levin, what the actual _ fuck _ is going on?  _ Tell. Me _ .”

 

He runs his fingers through tousled curls. “Uh. Um. Maybe I— Whizzer? Don’t— don’t kill me for this, okay?” 

 

“What did you  _ do _ ?”

 

“Well, it was less of  _ me,  _ and more  _ Jason, _ but, uh—”

 

“Do I turn into some sort of giant green rage monster when I’m angry? Come on, Marvin, why are you so nervous?”

 

“Because I’m convinced you might kill me for this.”

 

“Well, maybe if you tell me what you fucking did, we could, oh, I don’t know, solve the problem?”

 

“We— Jason and I did some redecorating for when Ella and her parents come.”

 

You blink, and then start to laugh. “That’s it? Marvin, honey, that’s fine! I know they’re conservative with a capital C, and, y’know, probably are gonna be shocked enough about the fact that they’re in the house with a gay couple, so the dicks can come off the wall for the night.”

 

“They, uh, won’t be in the house with a gay couple.”

 

“Oh, so am I gonna be in drag? I could probably pull it off, you know.”

 

“No, no, I mean— I— Jason, uh, thinks it would be better if— if, uh, maybe, you weren’t there.”

 

“I’m sorry, I just hallucinated. What did you say?”

 

“Whizzer—”

 

“You— you don’t want me there? And— and Jason?”

 

Ouch. 

 

You love Jason like he’s your own son. And right now, you think you understand how Marvin felt whenever hormonal teenage Jason screamed that he hated Marvin, and you’d come in and fix him up and get your boys back to normal.

 

Your heart hurts like it did during the Break you and Marvin Don’t Speak Of. It lasted all of four hours, but oh, God, did that hurt.

 

This might be worse. 

 

“Whizzer, don’t look at me like that,” Marvin pleads. 

 

“I can’t believe you! You’re— you’re really letting him— you’re kicking me out?”

 

“Micah—”

 

“Don’t you ‘Micah’ me! I’m _ hurt,  _ asshole! I love Jason like he’s my own fucking kid, and you want me to pretend like _ I don’t exist? _ Fuck you!”

 

“This is why I didn’t want to tell you,” Marvin whispers. “I— please, baby, it’s just one night….”

 

“What are you going to do about the actual wedding, then? Have me not come to that, either?”

 

“No, no, no, of course not! I—” Marvin pauses and sighs. “You know what? I’m the parent here. Of course you can come to dinner. You can be— you can be his uncle. Uncle Whizzer.” He gives you a quick once-over. “His...clearly gay Uncle Whizzer. Fuck!” 

 

“Oh, please, I can play it straight!”

 

Marvin bites his lip. “I— can you?”

 

“Marvin, for fuck’s sake, I might dress in drag, but I also play baseball, train athletes, and know how to shoot things. I’m from Omaha, Nebraska. Do you think I spent my childhood doing ballet? Because I spent a lot of it driving a tractor and doing grunt work on a farm when I wasn’t at some sort of practice. You’re more gay than I am!”

 

“No, I’m not!”

 

“You dress like a lesbian and can’t stand any type of outdoor activity, let alone sports.”

 

“I do not— wait. Charlotte and Cordelia. Could one of them pretend to be his mom?” 

 

“I love them, but absolutely not. Cordelia could help us with the food, though.”

 

“Oh, good idea, I’ll call her later. But— Jason needs a mom.”

 

“Why? He’s never had a mom before. Why can’t you just be a single dad?” 

 

“These people don’t— Jason really likes her, Whizzer, and we need to make us seem as normal as possible.”

 

“We are normal. You know that, right? There’s nothing wrong with us.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“Do you? Because you sure as hell aren’t acting like it. Tell your internalized homophobia to take a tranquilizer, okay?”

 

Marvin buries his face in your shoulder and groans. “I hate this.”

 

“I know, honey. Me too. But we’ll impress them and it’ll all be over, and then we can go back to our completely gay, normal life.” 

 

“You’re right— but Jason still needs a mom. At least for tonight.”

 

“We could call in Joanne?”

 

“She’s also too gay. And I’m not sure if she’ll wear a bra.”

 

“Mimi?”

 

“Ah, yes, an ex-junkie who occasionally is still a stripper.”

 

“You love Mimi! She’s hilarious, and she’s really sweet. She always brings the good cookies to Life Support.”

 

“I know, I know, but also? Jason needs at least some sort of resemblance to make it look— well, believable.” 

 

“We could ask Stephanie?”

 

“No, she’s in Italy right now.”

 

“Wait. Jason has a mom, doesn’t he?”

 

Marvin rolls his eyes. “You think I made a baby by myself?”

 

“No, asshole, I mean— why don’t we call Jason’s mom?”

 

Marvin’s eyes widen. “Give me a second.” He pulls out his phone, dials, and holds it to his ear.

 

“Well?” you ask.

 

Marvin holds up a finger and then grins. 

 

“Hey, Trina.” 

  
  



End file.
